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Her balmy breath, and all her blooming store
Of rural blifs, was here before :

Oft have I met her on the verdant fide
Of Norwood-hill, and in the yellow meads,
Where Pan the dancing Graces leads,
Array'd in all her flowery pride.

No fweeter fragrance now the gardens yield,
No brighter colours paint th' enamel'd field.


Is it to Love these new delights I owe?
Four times has the revolving fun
His annual circle through the zodiac run;
Since all that Love's indulgent power
On favour'd mortals can bestow,
Was given to me in this aufpicious bower.


Here firft my Lucy, fweet in virgin charms,
Was yielded to my longing arms;

And round our nuptial bed,

Hovering with purple wings, th' Idalian boy
Shook from his radiant torch the blifsful fires
Of innocent defires,

While Venus fcatter'd myrtles o'er her head.

Whence then this ftrange increase of joy He, only he, can tell, who, match'd like me, (If fuch another happy man there be)

Has by his own experience tried

How much the wife is dearer than the bride.





A MONOD Y. A.D. 1747.

"Ipfe cavâ folans ægrum teftudine amorem, "Te dulcis conjux, te folo in littore fecum, "Te veniente die, te decedente canebat."



T length efcap'd from

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From every duty, every care,

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,
Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry;
Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade,
This lone retreat, for tender forrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my ftores of grief;
Of grief furpaffing every other woe,
Far as the pureft blifs, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our grofs defires, inelegant and low.

II. Ye


Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'erfhadowing hills,

Ye lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my 'Lucy feen!

But never fhall you now behold her more:
Nor will the now with fond delight

And taste refin'd your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are thofe beauteous eyes in endless night,
Thofe beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to fhine
Reafon's, pure light, and Virtue's fpark divine.


Oft would the Dryads of thefe woods rejoice
To hear her heavenly voice;

For her defpifing, when the deign'd to fing,
The fweeteft fongfters of the fpring:
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more;
The nightingale was mute,

And every shepherd's flute

Was caft in filent fcorn away,

While all attended to her sweeter lay.

Ye larks and linnets, now refume your fong:

And thou, melodious Philomel,

Again thy plaintive story tell;

For death has ftopt that tuneful tongue,

Whofe mufic could alone your warbling notes excel.


In vain I look around

>O'er all the well-known ground,

My Lucy's wonted footsteps to defcry;
Where oft we us'd to walk,

Where oft in tender talk

We faw the fummer fun go down the sky;
Nor by yon fountain's fide,

Nor where its waters, glide

Along the valley, can fhe now be found:
In all the wide-ftretch'd profpect's ample bound
No more my mournful eye

Can aught of her efpy,

But the fad facred earth where her dear relicks lie.


O fhades of Hagley, where is now your boaft?
Your bright inhabitant is loft.

You the preferr'd to all the gay resorts
Where female vanity might wish to fhine,
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts.
Her modeft beauties fhunn'd the public eye:
To your fequefter'd dales

And flower-embroider'd vales

From an admiring world the chofe to fly :
With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God,
The filent paths of wisdom trod,

And banish'd every paffion from her breaft,
But thofe, the gentlest and the best,
Whofe holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heart enliven and improve,
The conjugal and the maternal love.


VI. Swee:


Sweet babes, who, like the little playful Fawns,
Were wont to trip along thefe verdant lawns
By your delighted mother's fide,

Who now your infant fteps fhall guide?
Ah! where is now the hand whofe tender care
To every virtue would have form'd your youth,
And ftrew'd with flowers the thorny ways of truth?
O lofs beyond repair!


O wretched father! left alone,


their dire misfortune, and thy own! How shall thy weaken'd mind, opprefs'd with woe,

And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, Perform the duties that you doubly owe!

Now the, alas! is gone,

From folly and from vice their helpless age to fave?


Where were ye, Mufes, when relentless Fate
From thefe fond arms your fair difciple tore;
From thefe fond arms, that vainly ftrove
With hapless ineffectual love

To guard her bofom from the mortal blow?

Could not your favouring power, Aonian maids,
Could not, alas! your power prolong her date,
For whom fo oft in thefe infpiring fhades,
Or under Camden's mofs-clad mountains hoar,
You open'd all your facred store,

Whate'er your ancient fages taught,
Your ancient bards fublimely thought,

And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit glow?


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